Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 by Scandal in Fair Haven Page A

was the direct, unvarnished question of a mind obsessed with its own quest.
    “His aunt.”
    “Oh. The aunt he went to see after he found Mother?”
    “Yes.” So this was Brigit. I heard no reflection of Patty Kay’s husky, distinctive voice in her daughter’s.
    “Oh.” Brigit accepted it without question, almost without interest. “Is Craig there? Is he home?”
    “No. Not yet.”
    “I can’t
believe
they’ve put him in jail. And Daddy won’t let me talk to the police. I could tell them. I know him better than anybody, better than Mother even. Craig wouldn’t hurt anybody. Ever.” She choked off in sobs.
    “Brigit, do you want to help Craig get out of jail?” I will admit I felt a qualm. Taking advantage of children has not been a customary ploy of mine.
    There was no hesitation. “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”
    “Could I see you tonight? Or sometime tomorrow? I need to know more about your mother and who might have been angry with her.”
    “I can tell you a lot.” The switch from tears to venom was startling. “I can …” Abruptly the sound was muffled, but I could hear some of what she said. “… Paulie … she’s got my copy of the play … home early, I promise.”
    Then swift and short: “Sure, Paulie. I’ll meet you at the library. At seven. Don’t forget the play.”
    The line went dead.
    Slowly, I replaced the receiver. Seven o’clock. That would give me plenty of time to get back to King’s Row Road for the neighborhood meeting Cheryl had mentioned. But I was just as interested in meeting Brigit.
“Don’t forgetthe play.”
An artful touch. Apparently Brigit, too, was a glib liar. Like her stepfather. But many teenagers have secret lives.
    Sometimes the secrets are innocent.
    Sometimes they are not.
    I checked the phone book. One Fair Haven library. I called for directions. I had time for a quick supper and a shower.
    It’s sweaty work, cleaning up after a murderer.
    Clean and freshly dressed, I carried the plate of Stroganoff and some iced tea into the game room. It wasn’t that I was trying to make myself completely at home. I intended to work while I ate.
    I slipped in the video entitled
Brigit’s Sweet 16
.
    I immediately had to turn down the sound. The band played music I always make it a point to avoid on my radio at a decibel level which must have made the neighborhood dogs howl.
    A patio party: The girls and women in pretty summer frocks, the boys and men in slacks and sport coats, Japanese lanterns in pink and yellow, carnation-laden bowers, table centerpieces of hurricane lamps wreathed with pink organdy bows, and loud, loud music.
    “My God.” I said it out loud, the shock was so great—Patty Kay with a bulging face, double chins, and a bored, peevish expression. Then I blinked and realized my mistake as slim, dark-haired, vivacious Patty Kay greeted the woman who was her heavy doppelgänger. The resemblance was striking. The same angular face, mobile mouth, green eyes. What a difference forty pounds and an attitude made.
    “Hi, sis.” Pamela Guthrie offered a carmined cheek.
    The sisters lightly embraced, turned away to talk to others.
    Body language is just that. It was evident in the faces of the sisters, in their lack of animation, in their barely concealed indifference. These siblings weren’t remotely interested in each other. I didn’t sense hostility so much as disengagement.
    It was their only contact on the birthday video.
    Patty Kay was a gracious hostess, warm, welcoming, good-humored. She smoothly moved from person to person with real interest. She was never perfunctory. Craig was a better host than I would have expected, quick to refresh a drink or make an introduction.
    It was easy to spot the tennis chums and their husbands. Brooke Forrest was gorgeous in a hibiscus-patterned sarong, but one very modestly cut. I noticed that she danced only with her husband. David, wasn’t that his name? I could see why Patty Kay teased. David Forrest had a Mr.